Lift Glasses to the Troubled Ones
Says the philosopher—to the top of the universe with those gripped in want—
Gripped to know how people are not Pipes to be played by Fortune—
How not Robots—how not Puppets—extraordinary—how be they Agents of choice—
How the universe itself bows to their self-forming actions.
Methinks the universe will not tell—or if so I am too dull to hear—
What soil of earth could grow a seed that has not in history grown?
What vorpal blade could slay the Jabberwock that blocks the path of the free?
Will sunlight seize the ogre? Will moonshine guide the hero? The star the wise men serve?
God gives words that flow sometimes and he grabs—when chosen—my throat—
Try I to learn—God speaks through his finger—poked into our world—ours?—
Sacred secrets God has kept in wraps—opened not at Christmas bells—
Forerunners lighting candles—twentieth century candlepower so meek that few have seen—
Says the poet—by the grace of the God of the Mountain—who owns the shadows and seas—
By the love of the God of the People—the path will be cleared—the people free—
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